Forgiveness
by icedrop13
Summary: Bella has just been dealt the most unimaginable loss of her life, losing two of her dearly loved ones...at the hands of her best friend no less. How will she find the strength and love from within herself to find the greatest gift of all...Forgiveness.


Prologue

_Bella's POV_

_Tip tap tip tap_. The big fat droplets landed rhythmically on the windowpane, blurring into streaks as they ran down the glass. Blurring and disappearing into obscurity. At some point, I didn't know if they were coming from the gloomy cloud-darkened outside or from me. But after today, I would have thought I had run dry already. I felt hollowed out, numbness radiating from the very core of my being.

I went through the motions, and if my vital signs could speak, they would have said I was alive. But that was a mere technicality. I breathed, but I didn't want to. I spoke, but I was only a parrot at best. I saw, but I didn't see anything. Well, only one thing today, I suppose. Only that freshly dug grave in our backyard. _My_ backyard now, but it still felt like _his_. I know he would have wanted to stay close, if for nothing else than to watch over me like he always had. It was a small consolation in the overwhelming bombardment of pain, pain which I knew was there but couldn't feel anymore, as if all my nerve endings had been severed with that one blow. And I will never forget that day. Was it already 3 days ago? It seems like it was only a minute, a second ago. But maybe that was because it played incessantly in my head, a vicious loop set on eternal nightmare mode.

*_Flashback_*

My hips swung side to side in time to the radio, in what I imagine was a pathetic little parody of sexiness, as I wiped down the kitchen countertop. I then paused, and snorted softly, thinking that at least my husband hadn't married me in the hopes of turning me into a Victoria's Secret model, because sexy was not in my body language vocabulary.

I wasn't ugly, and I was at least vain enough to understand that. I was even what some might consider fairly pretty, but more in the fresh-scrubbed girl-next-door sort of way rather than the buxom blond bombshell sort of way. First of all, my straight dark mahogany colored hair swung down to mid-back with only a hint of curl at the edges, and mostly had a mind of it own, somehow resisting even the light honey blond highlights I had once attempted to put in during high school. That experiment was an unmitigated disaster, and was wisely never repeated. Second of all, I was as far removed from buxom as one could possible get, and even my current condition couldn't change that fact. Where other women had mountains, I had anthills at best, and no push-up bra could perform a miracle on me. I guess it was nature's way of telling me that I would have looked absolutely ridiculous with a 34D pair on my spindly frame, and in all likelihood would have tipped over like Barbie. So basically, I was average height, with average hair, with a figure that was skinny and hardly anything to rave about. Well, I thought with a little mental pat on the back, at least I had good skin, even if it was a few shades paler than alabaster, and no pimples, even though I was a little past the age of having those anyway.

"I sure hope pregnancy hasn't turned you into some sort of head case, Swan. Talking to the voices again?"

I whipped around, spray bottle and sponge poised for attack, but with a grin on my face. There, leaning ever so fashionably against the kitchen doorway, was perfection with a Y-chromosome. Sure, at least seeing him stopped taking away my breath after that first year in high school, but that didn't mean a girl couldn't ogle a bit.

"Yep, Cullen, and you know what they're telling me this lovely morning? They're saying you're looking a bit parched and need to be re-hydrated." I gave the spray bottle a few experimentally threatening squeezes with glee.

"And I knew I was right all along. You do need to be committed to the loony bin."

I snorted again, audibly this time. A slightly crooked grin replaced the mock concern on Edward's face, and his deep chuckle echoed lightly in the sunlit room. He walked towards the refrigerator with that lithe grace only he possessed, reached in and pulled out an apple—Macintosh, his favorite, and the type that I kept around the house for that very reason. He walked towards the kitchen table and pulled out a wooden chair, turning it so that the back faced me, straddling it with careless ease and loping his long arms on top of the chair's high back. He bit into the red apple with gusto, munching on it as I turned around and resumed my fervent efforts at keeping my kitchen spotless.

"Don't your parents feed you, Cullen? With the amount of food that you mooch off of me, you could probably feed a small 3rd world nation."

"Haha, funny funny. Isn't Jacob feeding you at all, Swan? I thought pregnancy was supposed to fill out a girl's figure, but here you are, still looking like a 12-year old. What month are you in again?"

I resisted snorting again. Barely. It was becoming a bad habit. But as if Edward didn't know what month I was in. Hell, he probably knew down to the very day, as alarming as the idea was, considering he wasn't even my husband. Every obstetrician's appointment Jacob couldn't make it to, which was quite a few, considering what he did for a living, Edward came as a stand-in. It was really quite amusing how many people thought he was my baby's father. It was even more amusing, how many of the nurses and attendants and frighteningly enough, even some of the expecting mothers, tried to hit on him even with that assumption. Edward had begged me not to say anything, as if he needed any more attention, not that I could blame any of his admirers.

I glanced at him now, drinking in his impeccable appearance. Now, I was happily married and absolutely silly in love with my husband, but the day that I can't stare at my drop-dead gorgeous best friend was a day that wasn't worth living. I did so now, as objectively as I could, and walked towards his chair, brushing my fingers—I had already ditched the cleaning products—gently through his artfully disheveled gold-tipped bronze hair.

I still remembered my first days as a freshman, new to Forks High School, painfully shy and sitting next to this veritable Greek god in biology. I couldn't even squeak out more than my name for those first few months, and diligently avoided eye contact with him as if my life depended on it, but I distinctly remember wondering what kind of hair dye he used to achieve such an abnormal and unique hue. I should have known then that everything about Edward was as abnormal and unique as his hair. I also wondered if he ever bothered to comb it, but I think I figured out in later years that he got away with never owning a comb at all.

His face was much the same as it had been in high school, certainly more mature but still with an air of charming boyishness. His eyes were such a dark green, smoldering with what I affectionately called his "bedroom eyes" whenever he concentrated intensely, and lightening to a sparkling emerald whenever he laughed that baritone chuckle that used to send sneaky little ripples down my spine. Thank goodness for my superior control, but the rest of the female species certainly wasn't as immune to it as I had conditioned myself to be. His lashes were the same brilliant color of his hair, which in retrospect was a dead giveaway that no dye-job was involved, and were so ridiculously long that I was envious of them on more than one occasion. His aquiline nose was straight and narrow, giving him that aristocratic bearing without his even trying. Not that he ever needed to. His lips were full without being pouty, constantly quirking into the trademark smirk that I'm sure he had perfected at birth to conquer the opposite sex. Edward was inarguably beautiful, but in a purely masculine way, his sleekly muscled but slim build only playing up his magnetic sex appeal instead of detracting from it. Ok, it wasn't like I was undressing him with my eyes, although I have seen him naked—correction, almost naked, as he had boxers on. Yeah, he was impressive then, too, but as his best friend, I would probably gag if I had to think of him like that, and just suffice to say, I stopped my mind from going there a long time ago.

As always, he was impeccably dressed, but I noticed he was actually wearing a button-up shirt and slacks today instead of his usual attire of jeans paired with a polo-shirt, which, having gone through his closet before, I knew he owned in every shade of the darker end of the rainbow. I eyed him with considerable speculation.

"What's the occasion today? You finally decided to run for President?"

"Mmm…a tempting thought, but no. I'm giving my final presentation for my MBA this afternoon, so if all goes well, you're looking at the newest investment banker for the Seattle branch of United Banks Incorporated."

"So, today's the day, huh? I guess I should say…"

He grinned widely, as we said simultaneously, "Go get 'em, Simba!"

There were so many of these inside jokes between the two of us over the years that strangers, and even our close friends sometimes, often looked at us like we were deranged or at least mildly retarded because our conversations followed absolutely no logical pattern. But when you had somebody who knew you better than you knew yourself and vice versa, who even needed logic? Edward knew me on a level that was so primordial that he was etched into every fiber of my being. We were constantly finishing each other's sentences or skipping over parts of conversations altogether without ever missing a beat, much to the frustration of others. The "Tiger vs. Lion Debate" was legendary and classic, and after about a week of intense lobbying on both our parts, I finally conceded that Simba would probably—and I begrudgingly said _probably_—beat Tony the Tiger if they were ever together in the ring. I mean, I guess there's a reason why Simba was king of the African savannah.

"So, are you ready for your big day?"

He glanced at me a bit sheepishly, digging into this pocket and pulling out what appeared to be a very crumpled piece of fabric.

"Um, almost all ready…can't seem to figure how to wrap this goddamn tie around my neck though."

I laughed unabashedly in his face, as I pulled the pitiful strip of silk from his fingers. He had chosen well, the black silk tie with thin silver lines threaded diagonally throughout, complemented his black slacks and burgundy shirt perfectly. I raised myself up on my tiptoes to loop the tie around his neck. Hm, how had I missed how tall he had gotten—6 foot 1 to my measly 5 foot 4 frame?

"What would you do without me, Cullen?"

"Fail out of getting my MBA, for starters. And probably get scurvy from being Vitamin C deficient, my apple-peddler."

It was so easy and natural to laugh around Edward. It was just as easy to be quiet and contemplative, too. Edward made everything just a little easier; he always knew just what to say and when to say it. I loved him for just being Edward, irreplaceable irrepressible Edward.

I know, I know, it's a wonder I didn't marry Edward in the first place, but I always recognized that Jacob was my heart, but Edward was my soul. It wasn't that I loved one more than the other, and it was ridiculous to try to rank them in that fashion. I never had to split my love between the two of them, I just got more. And it seemed that with the newest addition to come, my heart would just have to grow that much more.

"Well, the apple farmers of Washington State would certainly be in the throes of despair over the loss of their main source of income. There you go." I patted the precisely knotted tie into place. Jacob had attended more than enough formal functions over the years that I had already mastered the skill of tie manipulation during college.

"Thanks. So, how's the little parasite doing today?"

He gently laid a protective hand on my belly, which was only now beginning to swell, still imperceptible to most. But Edward was not most.

"Fine, I guess. Well, my upchuck reflexes have finally decided to tone themselves down a bit, and I think there's a slight bump now."

"Aw, our Bella's finally showing. After 5 months, it's about time. I was beginning to have my doubts, but I guess Jacob really did get the job done after all."

I rolled my eyes dramatically. It was no secret that Jacob and Edward were only cordial to each other on the most superficial level, and although I am not vain enough to think that it was entirely for me, I do know that they are both the type to care enough about me to _want_ to put me at ease. And having my husband and love of my life get along with my best friend and soulmate definitely topped my daily to-do list. They nodded, or grunted or whatever it is men do, by way of acknowledging each other's existence, but no one expected them to be going out for a congenial beer anytime soon. In my opinion, this constant standoff between them was somewhat ridiculous, since they've known each other since sophomore year of high school, which is when Jacob transferred here. I guess since I've always been so close to both of them, albeit in very different ways—I doubt Jacob would appreciate me doing some of the undisclosed things the two of us do with Edward—I always thought that it would logically progress that they would be just as close, kind of an A=B and B=C, therefore A=C sort of thing. But who knows. The inner workings of the nebulous and bizarre male mind have always been beyond my comprehension, uncharted territory, and suffice to say that I'm not that adventurous to begin with.

I saw Edward the very first day of my freshman year, only a week since I'd "relocated" to Forks from Phoenix. I say "relocated" tenuously because although it was technically my decision to come live with my father, even I recognized it as a feeble last-ditch effort for some semblance of control over my wildly spiraling life. It wasn't that I didn't like my new stepfather Phil; he was nice enough in that Peter Pan sort of way, like an overgrown boy who still hadn't given up chasing his childhood dreams to make it to the big leagues. Literally. If I had to hear just one more baseball stat, I thought I would start vomiting up baseball bats and catcher's mitts. In his own whimsical and, paradoxically, charmingly juvenile way, he complemented my mother almost perfectly, like twin siblings. Scratch that—that would be far more disturbing on so many levels. But in a strange way, they really did complete each other, and if anything, Phil's lack of grown-up concerns acted as a sort of catalyst for Renee to assume more responsibility, an honorary task that had up until Phil, fallen on my then 14-year old shoulders.

I did the grocery runs every week, I did the laundry every Sunday, and sadly enough, I even went without a protest when Renee sent me pick out her lacey and transparent lingerie for her romantic trysts with Phil, although the last chore has probably scarred me irreversibly for life. I have always maintained that certain things remain a secret for a good reason and should probably stay that way; there are just things that a daughter has no business and no desire to know about her own mother. And when Phil moved in after they reached the 1.5-month anniversary mark, guess who also had the privilege of folding his socks, and picking up his beer cans littered around the living room for the biweekly recycling? Yep, yours truly. I guess I could think of worse things than growing up to be an inordinately precocious and overcautiously responsible child, but the thing was that I distinctly remember never feeling like a child. I figured I probably had about 20 mental years over both Renee and Phil combined.

I never went on extended school fieldtrips, only those where I was sure to get back within the day, for fear that Renee would burn down the house trying to microwave a can of soup. And trust me, I've actually seen her put in the metal can on more than one occasion. I declined Johnny Meyer's invitation to go to the 8th Grade dance because my mother was going for her last dress fitting that night, and I truly did not relish the possibility of being a Maid of Honor in a hot pink gown. And knowing Renee and her proclivity towards the more neon spectrum of the rainbow, I considered my sacrifice well spent to keep her from tearing up her wedding pictures 10 years down the road. Ok, maybe 2 years down the road. I love my mother, but if her track record is anything to go by, even 2 years might be a stretch. My mother has a huge heart, one that just oozes open affection and visible enthusiasm, and standing by her, I wondered if maybe she stole some of mine, and maybe I had taken her portion of common sense instead. I was reserved at best, and more often than not, antisocial by definition—just without the whole wanting to blow up the world bit. I had my fair share of faults and my mother had hers, and our whole dynamic worked, and honestly, I would have loved to lay the blame at Phil's door, but even he couldn't create so much as a ripple between us. Renee and I didn't have the sort of bond where we would share whispers and stifled giggles over our latest celebrity crush (I didn't have any), nor did we set aside time to paint each others toenails or have any genuine mother-daughter time, but we were close nonetheless. It was a comfort that was born out of both habit and necessary dependence on each other.

But along the way, _something_ had changed, and even I was powerless to try and pinpoint the source of my anxiety. There was something both intangible and ineffable making me absolutely frantic to be somewhere—anywhere—else, and I supposed, although it's selfish for me to even think it, that there was just nothing left in Phoenix that could keep me there, not even the promise of my mother. Renee was marrying Phil, and knowing his wildly vacillating future plans, they would end up moving out of state within the next few months. No matter what my options were, high school would be a fresh start for me somewhere in some strange unfamiliar town with strangers who would think me equally strange. On one level, it was highly frustrating because I had never NOT had a definitive plan, and it was almost as if it was essential to my daily function that my direction already be fixed. The simple choice, the no-brainer, would have been to pack up my suitcase and duffel bag and lug after Renee wherever the wind blew her and Phil, but it seemed as if I knew I was teetering on the precipice of some huge life-altering cliff.

So, why the hell choose to go to Forks, Washington, that wet soggy place of perpetual gloom my father Charlie called home? As the plane landed in thick haze of lingering fog, as my reticent father drove me back to his house without passing a single other vehicle on the road, and that whole first week before school started that drifted by like some uneventful drug-induced stupor, I wondered exactly that. Renee made me pinky swear—yes, she really did—that I would call her the second the plane touched down, and when I reported in, even across the hundreds of miles, I could hear the millions of questions hovering in her voice that she was painstakingly repressing. Even if she had asked, I wouldn't have had any answers for her, but perhaps she was more perceptive than I ever gave her credit for.

And so here I was, in front of the nondescript brick structure of Forks High school on my first day and sitting in the cab of my new-old rusty red truck that Charlie had thoughtfully gotten for me, shivering—a little from the cold, since the heating unit had puttered out its last few dying breaths for the day about 3 miles away from Forks High, but mostly from the dreaded apprehension that had seemingly crept into cell of my body on the drive there. After a few minutes, the shaking got so bad that I had to grab one wrist with my other hand to keep myself from yanking the steering wheel clean off. Closing my eyes, I leaned my forehead on the chilled glass of the window and, with a trembling breath, I haltingly opened the front door. The blast of artic air that assaulted me was strangely therapeutic, probably numbing me to the point where even if I had been shaking like an earthquake, it wouldn't have even registered.

"Hey, you coming out, or are you planning to sleepwalk your way through school?"

I promptly jolted and fell out of my truck. It was not a short way down. I landed on the cold asphalt with all the grace of a 2000-pound ballerina on sedatives, and the pain was not so much jarring as was the sudden rush of acute embarrassment and humiliation. What a way to christen the start of my new life; I'll probably be known as the "Girl Who Makes Out With The Sidewalk" for my next four years here. With great effort, I pried my eyes open.

Two things struck me like an instant bolt of thunder. The first was the inhumanly beautiful forest green of his eyes. The second was the irate scowl that twisted his otherwise perfect features. I waited no further. I pushed up from my prone pancake position on the pavement, ignoring the slight twinge in my right ankle, darted my hand back into the cab of The Great Red Clunker with uncharacteristic agility, and pulled out my worn denim backpack. Only many months later, after my speedy limp of shame into the school's front office, would I be apprised of another two things. One, in my haste to flee the scene, I had neglected to close my car door. And two, my accident-trigger wasn't scowling at me—he was scowling at the gaggle of scantily clad girls guffawing and pointing at me from behind.

"Swan, eyes front!" The rifle crack of snapping fingers in front of my face jerked me out of my little reminiscent sidetrip. I glowered at Edward exaggeratingly, and he broke into loud laughter, because he knew I hated it when he showed off that tantalizing little skill that I just could not seem to accomplish. I had tried until my fingers were sore and still couldn't manage anything above a muffled little pop. I swatted his hand away.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just spacing a bit. Still failing to understand why you and Jake just can't seem to mesh. What, did he filch your power-tool or something?"

This time he snorted and rolled his eyes. "First off, guys don't 'mesh'; mesh is the frilly see-through stuff you girls wear on Valentine's Day to torture us into buying you expensive jewelry. Second, only you would use the word _filch_ in a normal conversation."

"Hm…well, it's not our fault you men have such a weakness for barely-there clothing. And in any case, it's not like I'm going to be wearing stuff like that for a while." I fondly patted my still flat abdomen. In some ways, the baby still didn't feel real, and my lack of physical changes only compounded that detachment, as if the baby wasn't really there.

"Better for me. Besides, I really don't need to be imagining your skinny ass in that sort of risqué apparel anyway, Swan. Jake might just find another reason to get in my face." Edward really should try to keep that anticipatory grin off his face if he wanted to be convincing. Instead, it just looked like he relished the idea a bit too much.

The screen door out front slammed with slight jingle and bounce, and deep footsteps made there way into the kitchen where we were.

"I don't need a reason to get in your fuckin' pretty-boy face, Cullen. I can pound it into the dirt anytime I want to," came the rich bass voice that never ceased to melt my insides like slowly burning embers being stoked in a fireplace. I turned away from Edward immediately, a soft smile breaking out on my face as I tenderly gazed at the towering man who now beautifully filled out the kitchen doorway.

Jake's height was always somewhat of a revelation, especially considering his father Billy was only a slight 5'8", but despite the good 6 inches he had on his father, he still managed to keep a rangy physique, although slightly more brawny than Edward. I don't mean to always be comparing the two, but I can't help it; it seems both their presences have equally always defined my life. His thick raven hair was cut short and neat now, with only a little tuft sticking out obstinately in the back, but I knew he usually didn't bother with any sort of grooming during the long stretches where he was away on a job. When he came back with his hair pulled back into a short ponytail and his face covered in that dark scruff, all it took was a well-placed pointed look from me and a finger directing him out the back door for him to go marching right back out with his head hung low in wary chagrin to the Forks barbershop. He knew the routine by now. Of course, I would never, even on my deathbed, tell him that I found his lack of outward upkeep a great comfort; I knew there was a great deal of temptation out on the road, where the women wore short skirts and low-cut bust-enhancing tops as a pre-requisite, and with the way Jake looked, he wouldn't have any trouble keeping his bed warm, with or without me. I interpreted the excessive facial hair and long locks as an affirmation of no extra-marital activities on his part, not that he ever gave me any reason to think otherwise. I guess it was mostly my own insecurities rearing their hideous heads.

I made my way over to him and cupped the sides of his face in my palm now as I leaned up to claim my greeting kiss. Jake's dusky gold skin was so deliciously smooth and always warm to the touch, although I concede I may be partial, and it could just be that I actually spontaneously combusted every time we came in contact. Even so many years together did nothing to dampen the mellow yet luminescent glow that made my heart slightly arrhythmic whenever Jacob was with me. Jake lowered his head to accommodate my height (or lack thereof), and I must have blacked-out for a bit because when I came to again, the only thing I could remember with any clarity was the absolute headiness that wrapped around me so lovingly.

Oh yeah, and Jake's skillful tongue. There was no ignoring that part.

I was yanking on his collar to bring his head down for round two, when the not so discrete cough from the other side of the kitchen reminded us that we had an unfortunate audience who probably did not want to partake of our intimacies. I sighed resignedly against Jake's neck, which smelled tantalizingly of some sandalwood-scented cologne and his own enticingly musky scent, and reluctantly release him, stepping off his shoes which I had previously been using to gain some leverage on his height.

I swiveled my head around to shoo Edward off so that Jake and I could resume our previous activities and hopefully progress toward the bedroom at some point soon, but Edward had that unrepentant shit-eating grin that I knew all too well pasted on his handsome face. To top if off, he whistled loudly towards us—yet another skill I could only dream of achieving.

"Damn Jake, if I knew your wife had that sort of skill set back in high school, I might have stolen her out from under your greasy mechanic's hands a long time ago."

Jake's response was a pithy but effective rude gesture that involved a certain digit—I'm sure you don't have to use your imagination all that much to figure out which one. "Shove it, Cullen. Aren't there other people around you can inflict yourself upon? My wife and I plan on getting busy soon, so unless you want to add voyeur to your lengthy list of faults, I suggest you take your ass and your ego out of here in the next few seconds."

Oh yeah, did I mention the impending baby had definitely mellowed Jake out? A spare few months ago, it wouldn't have even taken this much provocation to send Jake's fist flying into Edward's face, or vice versa, depending on who managed to react a split-second faster on that particular occasion. Jake's reasoning was that bloodshed in the vicinity of the baby would somehow stunt its psychological development, as if a fight would somehow send ultrasound waves of violent impulses through the placenta and turn fetus-of-unknown-gender into a future psychopathic killer…

*_End Flashback_*

How innocent we were back then, only a short few days ago but seemingly countless eons before, how stunningly optimistic, even with our petty little squabbles and ridiculously inane issues. Now, I sit here in front of a misty window, staring out into the bleak darkness outside, feeling that same vacant existence resonating within me. I didn't know if or where I could draw the impossible strength from to continue on; there are just some things from which people never recover. And they have every reason not to. I had simply lost too much, and I speak not from ungratefulness or even the sorrow which permeated like thousands of tiny poison-laced needles breaking every inch of my skin. I speak of the type of losses that no soul should ever have to endure, losses which break a person from the inside out without any hope of repair.

The front door slowly creaked open, and a gust of wet chilliness swept through the room. The polished black leather shoes that stepped hesitantly through the doorway of this all-consuming grief belonged to the last face I ever wanted to see, today of all days. He had no right whatsoever to be here, even in his misguided attempt to comfort me.

"Get out." My voice was low and raspy from innumerable tears shed, and still not enough, but my command held an unequivocal gravity. I just couldn't have him here today.

"Bella…" His voice was choked, unsure with the remorse and helplessness that were so foreign to his very being. Good. I was vindictive and suffering enough to want the same indelible hurt for him. The guilt was there also, but at the moment, the surge of pain upon seeing his familiar face pushed that guilt to the farthest recesses of my aching brain.

"Get out!" My voice rose an octave with each syllable. "Get the hell out, Edward! Get out, you...you MURDERER!!!"

He just stood there, not defending himself, not a single word, and his red-rimmed eyes straining with so much sorrow in his pale face sent me over the edge of the anger that I had so tenuously been holding onto. I had been clutching the back of the chair so tightly, my knuckles were turning blue. Suddenly, I just couldn't hang on anymore, not to the chair, not to anything. I sank into a shapeless pile on the cold tiled floor and buried my silently crying face in my trembling palms.

"My Jake…my baby…" The only sounds in the tomb-like room were the wheezing moans of my inconsolable anguish.

END of Prologue

So, what do you guys think? Are you curious to know what in the world happened in the span of the 3 short days between the flashback and the present that has sent Edward and Bella into that downward spiral? And although the pairing right now seems to be more Jake/Bella than anything else, I PROMISE it is most certainly an Edward/Bella fic, so never fear on that front. Please review! I would love to get everybody's feedback and any constructive criticism!


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